Kid Sensation

Hey, you guys! I’m sitting procrastinating because I’m supposed to go bake a pie and I have NEVER baked a pie. The only reason I’m doing this is because my husband happened to mention that he had never had sweet potato pie. My initial reaction was, “Of course not. You’ve always had pecan because you’re melanin deficient. ” Ignorant, I know. But since I live where I live, most of the white families I’ve met do pecan, most of the Black families, sweet potato. Tomato, tomahto.

But then two things happened. One, I realized that, blonde though my hubby may be, he’s been married to a Black woman with a Black family for almost twelve years. Two, my son also said he never had tasted said pie. Conclusion: I am a failure.

So I wildly overreacted which ended with a declaration that I’m going to make this pie. I’m sure hilarity will ensue that I will be compelled to tell ya’ll about later.

Anyhoo, I don’t know why I decided to spill those particular beans. I meant to tell you about how Kid Sensation cheated death. And, no not at the hands of Wondergirl. No. This time he took on the Big Man.

So we’ve all been cooped up here for the last few couple days together. Kid Sensation has been in front of a screen for the entire time. Like, only stopping for meals and potty breaks. Which would be fine if he was in college or building an online empire. However, he’s just looking up cartoon theme songs and offbeat British animation. (I don’t know.)

I know, I know–we’re terrible parents. I’m not gonna front though. It beats listening to him and Wondergirl fighting non-freaking-stop. I mean, it’s like living with Captain America and, well, Wondergirl. The other night, I didn’t hear anything for like, ten minutes and I was all, “Finally.” But then I realized that it was ten p.m. and they had just fallen asleep. Mid-fight.

All day, every day.

Yesterday, the Big Man figured that ol’ K.S. needed to get some fresh air. We live in the Pacific Northwest and it’s not raining. AKA: Get your butt outside.

Kid Sensation ignores the first missive, choosing the dangerous path of ignoring his dad. But this, you guys, this is not where things went left.

The Big Man repeats himself. He hates repeating himself even more than I do. Still, not in quite in Fatality country–just cruising the border. Not until Kid Sensation says, and I quote: “Okay, Okay. Be calm.”

I know you know what I’m talking about here. When you have repeatedly issued an order to your child and they want to act like you’re crazy and that your craziness isn’t their fault, it’s maddening. No, maddening isn’t right. It’s infuriating.

The Big Man turns beet-red. I know this description is overused, but he really was the exact shade of supermarket beets. All I heard was, “GET IN HERE! NOW!” It was so loud that at first I thought the Apocalypse had begun and I was going to be called into account for my bogus pie claims.

I immediately remove myself from the room. I am not trying to give eyewitness testimony. I remove myself from the room, and immediately begin fabricating plausible reasons for Kid Sensation’s disappearance. “Okay, we’re poor, so boarding school is out. Living with Grandma? No, she lives half a mile from here. Think, Vida, think!”

Next thing I know, I’m witnessing the single most tearful shoe putting on ever. He even managed to have one lonely tear stop mid-cheek on both sides of his face. It was so, so, pitiful, you guys. But he brought it on himself.

I still don’t know which particular boom was lowered that day. I’m a coward, so I’m afraid to ask. I’m just glad Kid Sensation is alive and well. And fighting with Wondergirl as we speak.

Has there ever been the alterna-Flinstones? Like has there ever been the hot guy/ fat chick sitcom? Because, on the real Wilma Flintstone, Alice Kramden, Carrie Heffernan could have done waaaaay better. Confession: I think Kevin James is kinda hot. But it works against the formula because I’m also fat. So we’d be another Mike and Molly.

Why do all the shows when someone gets a house/cash/gifts/cash happen to everyone else? Where is the application for these shows? Why don’t I know about it? Is it a conspiracy to keep me poor? I think it is. But then, I’m pretty sure life is a conspiracy to keep me poor.

Why does Naomi Campbell still look better than me? Aside from the fact that she probably diets, exercises, and great genes. Oh, and a stylists. Not the point. The point is, I thought time was supposed to be the great equalizer. You lied, Time. YOU. LIED.

There’s this fly on the windowsill. I need to go kill—never mind it’s a wasp. Carry on, wasp, I clearly interrupted whatever you had going on with the window and I apologize.

I walk at the track to lose weight. (Not to be confused with “walking the track” which means prostitution. In which case I’d like to think that I’d have more money. ) Today a more athletic chick ran past me and told me “Good Job!” I guess I’m at the white belt level of fitness and the track is clearly her dojo, she figured I needed her encouragement so that I wouldn’t give up and pass out on the track. I showed her though. I waited until I got to Gretchen to pass out.

The wasp is still there.

I wish it had been this Wasp.

I know the entire Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles song. All of them. And I sang them with Kid Sensation in Fred Meyer. Quietly. I’m not a complete jerk.

I have convinced myself to get a fatkini. It’s. About. To Go. DOWN.

We are so football starved in this house, we are watching the Madden Demo Game. It’s Cowboys vs. Seahawks. And we are here commenting on it. I actually said, “Oh, so they just gon’ let Romo walk in the end zone?” Out loud. Pathetic.

I don’t know. I was feeling random today. Kick me some of your randomness. You know, if you’re feeling random, too.

OH WAIT!!! I forgot to tell you guys! I was buying wine and I got carded. (I’m pretty sure it’s mandatory.) Here’s how the conversation went:

Cashier Lady: “You have such pretty skin.”

Me: “Thanks.”

CL: “Black Women are so lucky. You’re lucky you’re Black.”

Me: *mumbles something and rushes out before ending up on the news*

So, you guys, did I handle this right? Supermom would have totally had some kind of extremely nuanced shade and tossed it out there like a wiffle ball. But, I’m no Supermom. Yet.

I know, I know, another Wondergirl post. But you have to admit, she’s pretty entertaining. I’ll even throw in some bonus Kid Sensation and The Destroyer.

Actual conversation on their way to school:

Big Man: Wondergirl, are you supposed to be chewing gum?

WG: (Smack, Smack) Nope.

Big Man: Aren’t you going to get in trouble?

WG: Probably. (Smack). It doesn’t matter, Principal Conners is soft.

Soft?!?!? SOFT?!? How are you ten and calling someone soft like you’re The Rock? Like, I’m fully expecting her to continue that statement with, “You wanna cross the Wondergirl? Well, the Wondergirl says this…”

The week she was on steroids and became a ten-year-old rage monster (I told you guys it was going to be great):

Kid Sensation was flying his paper airplane in her vicinity. Yeah, I know. I’m not sure how he thought it wasn’t going to end badly, or if he was willing to risk it unaware of just how badly it was going to end. This is how–and you guys, just, you guys. Wondergirl, who was curled up in the recliner trying to suck her thumb despite her swollen face, was trying to watch TV. Besides the steroids, she was also going through thumb withdrawal. No bueno. So then Kid Sensation comes through with this airplane. Wondergirl is tracking the plane with her eyes. It passes in front of her face twice. Somehow the barometric pressure in the room drops, so I know it’s about to go down. Third time–and I swear on my Batman T-Shirt–her feet shoot from underneath her and she grabs the airplane out of the air with one hand simultaneously. She crushes poor Kid Sensation’s airplane while staring him down, then balls the airplane up and slams it into the garbage. Then she went back to the chair, curled back up, and continued her attempt to suck her thumb. It happened so fast, if the Big Man hadn’t asked me if I had just seen what he did, I would have thought I imagined it.

You guys, I’m pretty sure this is what happened.

She blew up at The Destroyer so hard you guys he just put his hands up and walked away. He was trying to tell her that dinner was ready.

Wondergirl was in her room ranting for no reason. Well, maybe there was a reason, but I was scared so I didn’t go in. Or even knock. There might be a body in there, but all I smell is Bath and Body Works Sweet Pea lotion so I think I’ll leave it alone for now.

Oh, and Kid Sensation tried to get himself killed. The other day he threw himself face down on the couch, then lifts his head, coughs, and says, “Oh, I think it’s Dad’s bottom.” He then lowered himself down to floor and immediately put his own head down. He already knew.

Oh, oh, and I have to take timeout to be that parent who brags about something her kid did like other people really care and aren’t just politely nodding and thinking about how to escape.

So the Destroyer runs track, and he ain’t half bad. He runs the 400 and the 4 x 100, and he throws discus. So last week, he’s running the third leg of the 4 x 100 and his teammate steps on his shoe during the handoff. The Destroyer trips, falls, and his shoe comes off. He rolls over, pops up, and finishes his leg and handoff. WITH. ONE. SHOE. I thought that was kinda cool.

Okay, so I you read my blog on a regular basis (and I know you do, because it’s just that entertaining) then you know that I love me some superheroes. Marvel, DC, Justice League, Avengers, all of it. I’ve already done a post about which super powers I would like to have. Now I’m going to do this one about which superheroes the people in my life actually are. I mean, if you think about it, we all have people in our lives that have traits of certain mutants or aliens. Like, my sister Birdie and I have mutual acquaintance that would be Rogue because she sucks the life out of everyone. Like that.

Of course, I would be Batman. Wait–The Destroyer has just informed me that I am not Batman. He is insane.

“Of course I’m Batman. I’m fabulous all day and then I lurk around all night fighting dirt and crime. Mostly dirt. Also, I always wear black.” Not sure if Batman wears black because it’s slimming, but whatever.

“You’re actually the Punisher. You just go around busting up everyone’s fun.”

What? I thought I was fun, not the fun-buster.

“No, it’s just that being the fun-buster is fun for you. That’s why you smile when you do it.” (Note: This is not why. I just have this weird quirk where I smile when I’m angry. Don’t ask me why, I wish I looked fierce and scary and intimidating.)

“You shut up and let me be Batman before I punch the air out of your lungs.”

He laughed, said “Punisher” and went to eat all the food out of the refrigerator.

I have previously called the Big Man my own personal Hulk. But now that I think about it, that’s not quite right. He has no Bruce Banner side to him; he always just walks around being huge and intense. He’s the Juggernaut. Like this:

He does that several times a day.

Wondergirl is Captain America. She doesn’t make the rules, but she sure will enforce them. With violence. Sweet, sweet, justified violence.

The Destroyer. He’s Beast. No, he’s not blue, and he’s not even really hairy yet. But he does run around on all fours (not joking) and can physically do some pretty amazing crap. He’s also pretty smart when he feels like it.

Kid Sensation. I almost put Kid Sensation down as Iron Man, because of how good he is with technology. But Iron Man talks too much. So I gave him Cyborg. I would ask him what he thinks of that, but he won’t say anything, anyway–he’s on the computer trying to buy something behind my back. Haha, Kid, there’s no money in that account. There’s no money in any account. Joke’s on–well, all of us, I guess.

Birdie is Storm. She’s usually the voice of reason, until she gets mad. Then it’s lightening bolts and tornadoes for everyone.

Yay! Family dinner!

Ah yes, Supermom. No, she is not Superman, she is Darkseid. I’m dead serious.

I have to admit, I sometimes feel that everyone is having a better weekend than I am. So I documented my weekend and realized that they probably are. But that’s okay, because mine wasn’t half bad. Here it is:

Go to the farmer’s market with your six-year-old. It is so nice to go with someone who doesn’t have any time constraints or an agenda. Kid Sensation was cool to wander with me, sample food, be the only one dancing to the live band, and tip the violinist. Although, apparently balloon animals are okay, but the prospect of getting paint on his face on purpose is terrifying and definitely not okay.

Throw the football with with your twelve year old. Ask him what him and his friends talk about at school. When you suggest boobs, he will emphatically tell you not boobs. Which probably means boobs. You will also find out that his friend, Optimus Prime is a serial dater but that The Destroyer has incredibly high standards for someone who still loses arguments to his six-year-old brother. And who smells like old hummus by the end of the day.

Go boot shopping with your ten-year-old. She will be picky. You will be impatient if you are the Big Man and feel like you should be at home watching football—but you promised. She will hug her Daddy and you will be caught smiling.

Fight with your six-year-old. He will have stayed up late to sneak-watch Frozen, so he won’t be on one, he’ll be on all of them. The final showdown will come at 1 p.m., right as you’ve arrived to your Sunday meeting, where he will melt down as you try to tuck his shirt in in an effort to avoid someone thinking you just brought some random homeless Ewok with you. (He also needs a haircut.) You decide it’s time to go nuclear and call in the Big Man. Kid Sensation is taken out for a few minutes, comes back tearstained and chastened, and instantly falls asleep.

Now, I’m not suggesting that people call kids jerks out loud to their faces. (Even though I do. All three of my kids are old enough to know when they’re being jerks.) What I’m saying is that kids do stuff that jerks do. Stuff that would make adults unfriend or unfollow or whatever it is people do these days.

Like:

1.) Correct your speech. I hate this. You know why? It’s not like they’re correcting your grammar or anything–they’re correcting you about crap that is completely irrelevant. Kid Sensation is good for it. I was talking to Kid Sensation about a dvd we got from the library. “Make sure you have that Blue’s Clues dvd in the case.” He says, “You mean, Blue’s room.” Listen, pal, I don’t give a flying fish stick what it’s called, just make sure it’s in the case so we don’t have to pay for it! Or the time I told him that something he wanted to do was impossible. He says, “You mean unpossible”. No, I didn’t, because I can’t mean something that isn’t a word. That is jerk stuff, right there.

2.) Question you. I don’t mean ask questions. I mean question me–two totally different things. When I give specific instructions, I don’t need to hear “why do I have to do it that way? It’s just as good if I do it the sloppy way I want to do it that is destined to fail”. I obviously have reasons for telling you how to do something a certain way, or maybe I don’t. Point is, you live here rent-free and you are wearing clothes that I didn’t steal off a bum as well as horrendously overpriced shoes. If I want the towels folded into thirds, so be it.

3.) Ignore you. This is grade-A jerk stuff because you know for a fact that they can hear you. Kid Sensation is also really good at this. The other day, I asked him to clean up all his Thomas crap. Nothing. So I repeated my request. He didn’t even turn his head. I raised my voice a bit (a lot) to make sure he could hear me. Bupkis. So then I said, almost whispering, “Guess I’m gonna have to eat this ice cream all by myself.” Guess what? I get, “Ice cream? What ice cream?” Uh huh. “No ice cream, I already ate it by myself. Now pick up your Thomas crap.” Take that, jerk.

4.)Try to go over your head. This right here is so infuriating, I can’t even. When I say no, going to the Big Man to plead your case isn’t going to work. Odds are, he’s going to tell you to ask your mother, anyway. Oh and being extra sweet and sitting on his lap won’t work either, Wondergirl. I’ve tried that.

5.) Ask you the same thing repeatedly. This is going nuclear in the jerk-being department in my book. I will, never, ever, ever in this life change the answer to a question just because you ask me 546,687 times. If I said no then, I promise I will say no the 546,688th time. I guaran-freaking-tee it.

And then I do this.

I don’t know. Like I said, my parenting skills are iffy, at best. What about those of you that are good parents? Are your kids jerks?

“I guess being dead won’t work either.” I tried not to respond to the kids pleas for some motherly attention and played possum with my eyes closed. Kid Sensation stone-cold walks over to me, lifts up my right eyelid, and screams “MOM!” right in my face.

“Oooooh! I have a Honeycrisp in the fridge. Imma eat that!” Pretty exciting, if you ask me.

“I guess it’s time to ram the doors with my truck.” The Destroyer was fifteen minutes late coming out of football practice and the school doors were locked. I had to figure out a way to save him (and then kill him if nothing serious had happened). Ramming things with my truck is always the solution.

“Do I separate them or let them work it out?” Trick question–I had no intentions of doing either. I just parked them in front of a violent cartoon so they’ll both shut up for thirty minutes. I’m such a good mom.

Because this is EXACTLY the kind of thing Wondergirl needs to see.

“You stay in that corner, spider, and I will stay in this one. That way we’ll both lead long, happy lives.” She didn’t listen, though, and I really didn’t want to fight her. I only talk tough. I went into the other room–no one wants a spider in their afro.

“That was bad.” I thought that about a lot of things today. I think that about a lot of things a lot of the time–a solid fifty percent of which are things I have done.

“I am so trifling.” I was playing Farm Saga instead of cleaning the kitchen.

“Matching socks? Who cares about having matching socks? Ebola is real in these streets!…is what I’ll say.” Have I mentioned that I hate laundry?

“You lose, cat.” I had a staring contest with the neighbor’s cat through the window. He thinks he’s better than me. I showed him.

“If I take two samples of the same item at Costco, is that stealing?” Now that I think about it, probably not. Also, I’m a fatty, and everyone expects a fatty to take two samples. I can’t let them down.

“Those are for douchebags.” I’m not sure what this was about. Oh, wait. It was one of those bikes that goes over your shoulders and you have to run. I saw one of these in real life. It was pretty douchetastic.

“How dare you?” After pretty much everything that comes out of Kid Sensation’s mouth. I mean, he says stuff like “Never mind that” and “You meant to say…” How dare he?

“Where does he think he’s going?1?” I thought Kid Sensation was getting into someone else’s car and panicked. Turns out it was Gustavo, his classmate. Again, I’m pretty much Mom of the Year over here.

“I know! A tangerine!” Trying to think up what to have for snack.

“Buzz all you want, dryer. Those clothes will stay in there until no one has underwear.” Not true. Just until I have no underwear.

“NO! No more Gerald and Piggie!” Seriously, no more Gerald and Piggie.

Have you ever woken up irritated? Like so irritated that you knew you were going to be an awful human being that day and no one was going to want to be within 50 feet of you and the thought of it made you GLAD? No? You think you’re better than me? Huh?

Let me backtrack. We’ve gotten through the first week of school. You know that week where you’ve already spent god knows how much money and yet the kids seem to have nothing so you have to spend more money that you don’t have? Yeah, that week.

It’s also the week that you find out exactly the toll having your spawn home all summer has taken on your house, and so everything has fallen apart at exactly the same time. So now you have to do a bootleg job of holding your furniture together with duct tape, string, and a few paperclips. And staples. I’ve gotten to where I can’t relax when I sit in our recliner because I’m waiting for it to collapse under me and I want to be able to spring off of it like cat so I don’t have a recliner-related death.

I will look exactly like this.

The dishwasher keeps thinking it’s cleaned dishes that it hasn’t. That blinking “clean” light is actually the dishwasher laughing at me. So I’m washing dishes by hand like I live in a third-world country.

We now have a gopher razing our yard to the ground. I don’t have Bill Murray’s number. If you do, please tell him to contact me about a rodent and some dynamite.

My kids’ stomachs are actually black holes—infinite and unfillable. Of course, the Big Man is quite confident he can give me ten bucks to feed the family for the week and is astonished when I come home with potatoes and ramen instead of steak and asparagus. I kid, I kid. We can’t afford ramen after buying shoes for the Destroyer. Or after paying for school lunch.

Kid Sensation fell into a depression because he couldn’t wear his new school jeans and sweatshirt in 90-degree heat. He told me his summer clothes looked raggedy. I told him they look a heckuva lot better than heatstroke.

Good news: Wondergirl save her first altercation for the second day of school. Baby steps.

So after all that, Friday rolls around and I woke up irritated. And I plan to be pretty terrible today. At least until wine time.

So I admit, I believe in spanking. It happens very seldom, though, reserved for things like running in the parking lot or telling me I’m fat. I do love an idle threat, though. I am forever threatening my kids with the beating of their lives that they know will never happen. They laugh at me. Hysterically. Well, all except Kid Sensation; he ignores me 75% of the time. I have actually gotten pretty creative with my threats.

“You wanna talk crazy to the Mom? Well, the Mom says this….” (This actually scared them a little, as they weren’t familiar with the Rock’s lingo and I was speaking of myself in the third person.)

“Don’t make me….” (This sentence ends in a variety of ways.)

“I’ll slap you over to Grandma’s house.” (She’d just make me come pick them up, and everyone knows I don’t feel like doing that.)

“You like CDs? Well see these fists!” (Actually, that one didn’t work because they don’t like CDs, only mp3’s and “mp3 these fists” makes no sense.)

They know it’s all in good fun, my actual punishments are quite sadistic. Like the time I made The Destroyer and Wondergirl clean each other’s room for fighting. For a week. Or when The Destroyer had to be Wondergirl’s servant for three hours after he said something mean to her—she absolutely relished it and contrived some of the most menial tasks possible, like fanning her nails dry. It was awesome, and it worked.

But they still enjoy my threats of bodily harm. They might be as off as their mother.

Do you randomly threaten? Or are you a good parent? (If you are, you can’t sit with us.)

I often watch my kids and their interactions in amazement. You know how they say “kids are cruel”? I think it’s because kids under a certain age are brutally honest. The other day I had the privilege to observe Kid Sensation and his peers at the new library play area. I have to say, not only are kids dead honest, other kids handle this honesty quite well.

I saw a little boy who was contentedly playing alone with some blocks. Another boy came to join in the block fun. The first boy stares at the other kid, sighs heavily and gets up to go somewhere else. Now, a stare, a sigh, and bodily self-removal only mean one thing: I don’t really want you anywhere near me, but since I can’t ask you to leave, I’ll go instead. To me, this is even ruder (ruder? Is that a word? Well, there’s no squiggly red line, so I guess it is) than being asked to leave. This is basically being told that you stink. As a grown woman, I would fight someone who did this to me—they obviously just told the world that I stink. I feel very strongly about that because I don’t stink. The kid who must have stunk didn’t seem to take this too badly, though.

I saw a little girl horde baby dolls. I mean, chickie-poo wasn’t letting anyone touch the babies because everyone else had germs. Those were her words. “Don’t touch the babies cause you have germs.” The funny thing is, I am pretty sure I know who this girls turns out to be. She’s the mom that begs for playdate that turn out to be absolutely zero fun because no one can get dusty or touch anything. Notice I didn’t even say dirty. The girl managed to remain un-beat-up, and other little girls kept approaching her. It probably won’t be until middle school that people start to avoid her like the plague.

My kid, my innocent darling Kid Sensation, shooed another child. Like, he said the word, “Shoo!” to someone else. I swear to god, if another adult, (besides my mama and Grandma of course) said shoo to me, I would lose it. Shoo? SHOO? Like I’m some sort of fly with poop-covered feet? No dice. However, Kid Sensation remained unscathed.

Well, maybe if I was this fly.

One little girl told another girl that her hair was ugly. The other little girl shrugged and moved on with her life. This is not something I would have been physically capable of. If another grown woman had decided to straight up tell me that my hair was ugly without the usual dancing around the subject (you know, the “ Ooooohhh, you got your hair cut. It’s, um, different.” Or, “that color? Humph. Well if you like it…) there would have been no further words exchanged. It would be all “Eyewitness reports say that the suspect, Vida, somehow turned into a wolverine and ripped the offender to shreds. Reports say that the suspect keeps muttering the phrase, ‘They told me Tuscan Honey would look good on me. They told me Tuscan Honey would look good on me’”.

When do we lose the capability to be so honest and accept such honesty in return? Are kids better people than adults? Maybe. But they don’t pay bills or have jobs or do laundry, so maybe not.